He set out to claim back the Domain, the Government House land which included the present Domain and all the area up to Bennelong Point and Mrs Macquarie’s Point.

The Domain, Sydney, from the air

Macquarie, a religious man, had orders from London to reform public morals. Over the years the remoter areas of the Domain had become useful territory for thieves and prostitutes. The seclusion suited hiding stolen goods and meetings of, well, various kinds. The Domain needed a good clean-up.

He enclosed the area with a stone wall and wooden fences. In 1815 he posted constables to lurk inside and arrest anyone who broke in. Three men who were caught there that April – one of them was suspected of dealing in stolen goods and keeping a ‘disorderly house’ – were flogged.

She was the one who planned a new route around the eastern part of the Domain, which was to be named after her – Mrs Macquarie’s Road. At the northern tip of the new road a large rock was carved into a seat for her – called, of course, Mrs Macquarie’s Chair – and it’s said she loved to go there by foot or carriage and watch the ships sailing in from the other side of the world.

It’s likely that Mrs Macquarie’s Chair was carved by Nicholas’s road gang, but I haven’t found any proof of that. On one side a stone carver has inscribed the date when Nicholas and his gang finished the road, and that, together with Lachlan Macquarie’s journal, is where the date of 13 June, 2016, the Botanic Garden’s 200th birthday, comes from.

Inscription on Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, CC via Wikimedia

It’s still a popular place for sightseeing, and it’s where Delaneys are gathering today to celebrate Nicholas’s achievement. A cannon will be fired to mark the historic moment at one o’clock when the men downed tools and Nicholas gave the Governor the good news.

Governor Macquarie had launched a ‘fine brig’ named after his wife, Elizabeth Henrietta, at noon that day – another birthday present for her. Exactly an hour later, overseer Delaney added his good news about the road gang’s birthday gift. Isn’t that good timing? I have to admire my 3x great grandfather for his forward planning.

I’ve got a little something to mark the ‘auspicious Day’, too – an offer of 25% off the price of Nicholas Delaney’s biography, A Rebel Hand, until the end of June.

The Delaneys are coming back!

There’s going to be a gathering of Nicholas’s descendants on 13 June, 2016, at the Royal Botanic Gardens, exactly 200 years to the hour after our ancestor told a delighted Governor Lachlan Macquarie that he and his road gang had finished building Mrs Macquarie’s Road.

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816

One of my Delaney cousins tells me that the family will reunite at Mrs Macquarie’s Chair at 1pm ‘to re-enact the dedication of Mrs Macquarie’s Road by Governor Macquarie’. Isn’t that a brilliant idea?

I’ll pass on the details as soon as I know more. I’ll probably tweet them, so if you’re on Twitter, please check my moniker, @ARebelHand.

Inscription on Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, CC via Wikimedia

I can’t be there, so the least I can do is join in the spirit of the occasion and celebrate by announcing this:

Special offer on A Rebel Hand

From today until the end of June, I’m offering 25% off the price of a copy of A Rebel Hand, the biography of Nicholas Delaney, Irish rebel, transported convict, roadbuilder and farmer – a man who left his mark on the early colony and whose work can be seen in Sydney to this day.

I hope you’ll come back soon for the next Botanic Garden bicentenary celebration post.

Update: Delaney descendant Denis O’Brien, who’s organising the reunion, will be interviewed on 702 ABC Sydney, a local radio station. You can listen live at around 0620 Sydney time. It’s a little early in the morning, but I’m sure it’ll be worth it.

And the bicentenary’s on that day because of another birthday and the crafty planning of an Irish ex-convict – Nicholas Delaney, my great-great-great grandfather.

Lachlan Macquarie

In 1810, Lachlan Macquarie became Governor of New South Wales. An experienced soldier, he’d been sent to Australia to clean up after the Rum Rebellion of 1808-9, when the colony’s army regiment, the New South Wales or Rum Corps, overthrew Governor William Bligh. Yes, the same Bligh as in the Mutiny on the Bounty, 19 years earlier. Leadership skills didn’t seem to be his strong point.

One of Lachlan Macquarie’s projects was to claim back the Domain, the land surrounding and to the east of his official residence, Government House. It swept from Circular Quay around Farm Cove to Woolloomooloo and included places we now know as the Sydney Opera House, Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, the Royal Botanic Gardens and the (much smaller) Domain.

View of the (old) Domain area with Nicholas’s road on the right

Lachlan Macquarie and his wife Elizabeth seem to have been deeply fond of each other. She was certainly a great support in his efforts to move New South Wales on from a penal settlement to a self-sufficient colony.

As she was keen on gardening – a very civilised pursuit, and a way of taming the wild – no doubt he encouraged her to take on planning a new garden for the Domain and a road around the eastern part up to the place on the tip of the peninsula now known as Mrs Macquarie’s Point.

And it was Nicholas Delaney who Lachlan Macquarie appointed to work, with his convict gang, on building what was first called Mrs Macquarie’s New Road, later just Mrs Macquarie’s Road.

I haven’t found any record of when Nicholas and his men started work on the road, but it would’ve been back-breaking work. We do know when they finally laid down their tools and Nicholas hurried to tell the Governor the good news.

Sydney Cove and Farm Cove as they were in 1802

You’d need to be canny or lucky, or both, to survive as a convict in the early days of European settlement in Australia. Two decades of researching Nicholas Delaney’s life have convinced me that he was both. And tough as old work boots, too.

After six years working for Lachlan Macquarie it’s likely that Nicholas would’ve known when Mrs Macquarie’s birthday was. The 13th of June. And if speeding up or slowing down a bit meant that the gang finished work on her road on her birthday, well, what a wonderful extra birthday present that would be. One that her loving husband might appreciate, too.

And guess what? Nicholas and his men did just that. Was Lachlan Macquarie pleased? I’ll let the Governor tell you in his own words.

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816, pt 1

(He continues over the page)

Lachlan Macquarie’s journal for 13 June, 1816, pt 2

Here’s the transcription:

This day at 1. P.M. Nicholas Delaney the Overseer of the Working Gang employed for some time past in the Government Domain reported to me that Mrs. Macquarie’s New Road – (measuring 3 miles and 377 yards –) round the inside of the Government – together with all the necessary Bridges on the same – were completely [page break] finished agreeably to the Plan laid down originally for constructing it by Mrs. Macquarie.

As a reward for their exertions in having completed “Mrs. Macquarie’s Road,” on this particular and auspicious Day, I have given Delaney and his Gang of Ten Men, Five Gallons of Spirits amongst them – as Donation from Government from the King’s Store. —

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/06/07/nicholas-delaney-and-the-royal-botanic-garden-sydney/feed/4rebelhandLachlan Macquarie, Governor of New South WalesAerial view of the old Domain area of Sydney showing Mrs Macquarie's Road, via Google EarthOld map of Sydney Cove and Farm Cove as it was in 1802, when Nicholas Delaney lived thereOld handwritten document - Lachlan Macquarie's journal for 13 June, 1816 part 1Old handwritten document - Lachlan Macquarie's journal for 13 June, 1816 part 2Celestina’s life in Millbank Prison: a Christmas tale pt 22https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/celestinas-life-in-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-22/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/celestinas-life-in-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-22/#respondMon, 04 Apr 2016 09:30:27 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4841Continue reading →]]>In the last post in this series, Celestina Sommer arrived at Millbank Prison on 6 September, 1856, to begin her sentence for murdering her daughter, Celestina Christmas. Her hair was cut off, she was given prison clothes and put in the probation ward. What was life like for her there?

Here they describe entering the women’s pentagon, the third of the six that made up Millbank Prison’s panopticon design:

The women’s pentagon at Millbank *

‘The matron now opened a heavy door that moaned on its hinges. “This is A ward, and has thirty cells in it, exactly the same as those in the male pentagon.”

‘The cells had register numbers outside, but the grated gate was considerably lighter, though equally as strong as those in the other pentagons.

‘As we peeped into one of the little cells, we saw a good-looking girl with a skein of thread round her neck, seated and busy making a shirt. The mattress and blankets were rolled up into a square bundle, as in the male cells. There was a small wooden stool and little square table with a gas jet just over it; the bright tins, wooden platter, and salt-box, a few books, and a slate, and signal-stick shaped like a harlequin’s wand, were all neatly arranged upon the table and shelf in the corner.’ M&B

They go into greater detail describing a typical cell on the men’s wards:

‘The colour of the walls we found of a light neutral tint. Beneath the solitary window, which, like all the cell windows, looked towards the “warder’s tower,” in the centre of the pentagon, was a little square table of plain wood, on which stood a small pyramid of books, consisting of a Bible, a Prayer-book, a hymn-book, an arithmetic-book, a work entitled “Home and Common Things,” and other similar publications of the Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge, together with a slate and pencil, a wooden platter, two tin pints for cocoa and gruel, a salt-cellar, a wooden spoon, and the signal-stick before alluded to.

‘Underneath the table was a broom for sweeping out the cell, resembling a sweep’s brush, two combs, a hair-brush, a piece of soap, and a utensil like a pudding-basin.

A notice to female convicts, Millbank *

‘Affixed to the wall was a card with texts, known in the prison as the “Scripture Card,” and a “Notice to Convicts” also; whilst on one side of the table stood a washing-tub and wooden stool, and on the other the hammock and bedding, neatly folded up. The mattress, blankets, and sheets, we were told, have to be arranged in five folds, the coloured night-cap being placed on the centre of the middle fold; and considerable attention is required to be paid to the precise folding of the bed-clothes, so as to form five layers of equal dimensions. The day-cap is placed on the top of the neat square parcel of bedding, which looks scarcely larger than a soldier’s knapsack.’ M&B

A day in the life of a woman prisoner at Millbank

What was a typical day like for Celestina at Millbank? I’ve turned to another fascinating contemporary book, Female life in prison, by a prison matron (FL), which was actually written by a man, Frederick William Robinson, and published in 1863.

The day begins at quarter to six, he wrote, when the night guard rings a bell. ‘At six o’clock every prisoner is expected to be dressed and standing in her cell, ready to show herself to the matrons on duty’, who ‘unbolt each inner door, and fling it back to make sure the prisoner is safe and in health.’ The outer door is ‘formed of an iron grating’, which can be left locked to keep the prisoner secure but visible.

Guard at the inner gate, Millbank Prison *

‘The rattle, rattle of the bolts down the ward has a peculiar effect, and is the first sign of daily life.’ Some women were ‘let out to clean the flagstones in the wards, with a matron as guard over them; a few of the best-behaved dust the matrons’ rooms, and make their beds. The cells by this time are all cleaned and tidied, the bed is carefully folded up, the blankets, rug, shawl, and woman’s bonnet placed thereon, the deal table polished, and the stones of the cell scrubbed.’

At half past seven the prisoner gets a pint of cocoa ladled into her tin mug, and a four-pound loaf. After breakfast, she scrubs her ‘tin pint’, which she keeps in her cell. Work begins – ‘each woman in her separate cell, working silently, passively, and allowed no converse with her fellow-prisoners’.

At 9.15 chapel bell rings, and morning service is held half an hour later. ‘Each matron in charge of a ward is responsible for the number of women attending chapel, and the safe return to their cells.’ Presumably they go back to work, then at 12.30 ‘water is served to’ them and at 12.45 ‘the dinner-bell is rung, and each prisoner provided with four ounces of boiled meat, half a pound of potatoes, and a six-ounce loaf’ in a can, which is taken back after dinner. Then back to silent work, ‘coir-picking, shirt-making, &c’ with ‘only the voices of the matrons breaking the stillness.’

One hour a day is ‘allowed for exercise in the airing yards’, still under the rule of silence. ‘A ward of women is exercised at a time, walking ‘in Indian file’, with a prison matron in attendance, keeping a watch on her flock of black sheep.’ It’s ‘tedious and monotonous’ for the matron, ‘shivering in her in bearskin cloak’ in winter and ‘struggling against the heat’ in summer. I don’t imagine it was a barrel of laughs for the inmates, either, but at least they were able to get some exercise and fresh air.

Millbank convicts at exercise time *

‘For one hour these convicted women tramp unceasingly round the gravelled yard, muttering to each other when at the farthest distance from the matron… plodding on in this mill-horse round for sixty minutes, with the matron at times nodding at her post.’

Work goes on till 5.30pm, ‘when gruel is served in the “pints” of prisoners’. Then ‘a few prayers are said by a matron standing in the centre of each ward, so that her voice can be heard by the prisoners standing at their doors of open iron-work. After prayers each woman answers to a name from the list called out’ and then it’s back to work ’till a quarter to eight, when the scissors are collected; reading, &c, is then allowed, till about half-past eight.’ As well as reading, the prisoners have to make their beds in this short spell of free time.

The matron turns out the gas in the cells at quarter to nine, and after that ‘it is supposed… that the prisoners are in their beds.’

At 9pm matron on night duty starts her rounds, ‘passing once an hour each cell’, looking for ‘sickness or breach of discipline… checking at times artful signals on the wall between one prisoner and another’ until the bell rings again at 5.45 am and the whole routine begins again. FL

No wonder women prisoners thought was an ‘every-day, toilsome, wearisome life’, though better than the workhouse (!)

Millbank ‘dietary’. Monotonous and unhealthy

Mayhew and Binny were allowed into the kitchens at breakfast time to see the women’s breakfasts served. There were three kitchens, each one serving two of Millbank Prison’s six pentagons, and all staffed by men:

‘”This is the female compartment. Here, you see,” said the officer, pointing to the farther side of a wooden partition that stood at the end of the kitchen, “is the place where the women enter from pentagon 3, whilst this side is for the men coming from pentagon 4.” Presently the door was opened and files of male prisoners were seen, with warders, without.

‘”Now, they’re coming down to have breakfast served,” said the cook. “F ward!” cries an officer, and immediately two prisoners enter and run away with a tin can each, while another holds a conical basket and counts bread into it – saying, 6, 12, 18, and so on.

Prison kitchen (Holloway)

‘When the males had been all served, and the kitchen was quiet again, the cook said to us, “Now you’ll see the females, sir. Are all the cooks out ?” he cried in a loud voice; and when he was assured that the prisoners serving in the kitchen had retired, the principal matron came in at the door on the other side of the partition. Presently she cried out, “Now, Miss Gardiner, if you please!” Whereupon the matron so named entered, costumed in a grey straw-bonnet and fawn-coloured merino dress, with a jacket of the same material over it, and attended by some two or three female prisoners habited in their loose, dark-brown gowns, check aprons, and close white cap.

‘The matron then proceeded to serve and count the bread into a basket, and afterwards handed the basket to one of the females near her. “I wish you people would move quick out of the way there,” says the principal female officer to some of the women who betray a disposition to stare. While this is going on, another convict enters and goes off with the tin can full of cocoa.

‘Then comes another matron with other prisoners, and so on, till all are served, when the cook says, “Good morning, Miss Crosswell,” and away the principal matron trips, leaving the kitchen all quiet again – so quiet, indeed, that we hear the sand crunching under the feet [on the kitchen floor].’ M&B

This account does give a first impression that the women prisoners came to the kitchen for their breakfast, which isn’t what the ‘prison matron’ said. Perhaps what happened was that the matrons were helped by a few trusted prisoners, the sort that had the dubious privilege of cleaning the matrons’ rooms.

Millbank Prison laundry

Washing was, of course, women’s work, and very hard work it was. So in addition to coir-picking and sewing, Celestina’s fellow prisoners worked in the prison laundry, too. Mayhew and Binny paid another of their visits there:

‘We now entered the laundry, which reminded us somewhat of a fish-market, with its wet-looking, black, shiny asphalte floor. The place was empty – work being finished on the Friday. On Saturday mornings, the convicts who are usually employed to do the washing, go to school, and in the afternoon they clean the laundry, so as to have it ready for work on Monday morning. Long dressers stretch round the building; there is a heavy mangle at one side, and cloths’-horses, done up in quires, rest against the wall.

Millbank Prison in the 1880s

‘We are next led through the drying and getting-up room, and so into the wash-house. Here we find rows of troughs, with brass taps, for hot and cold water, jutting over them. There is a large bricken boiler at one end of the apartment, pails and tubs stand about, and a few limp-wet clothes are still on the lines. “There are only ten women washing every week now,” observed the matron; “we have had thirty-six or forty-quite as many as that. We used to do for the whole service, but at present we wash only for the female prisoners and their officers.”‘

The matron then led them back into the wards. “Generally speaking… those who have been very bad outside are found the best in prison both for work and behaviour; and the longest-sentenced females are usually the best behaved.”

“The long sentences are, mostly, for murder – child-murder,” she added; “and this is usually the first and only offence; but the others are continually in and out, and become at last regular jail people.” M&B

And, of course, it was ‘child-murder’ that Celestina Sommer was in prison for. There’s a strong implication in these accounts that women convicts were seen as either being incorrigibly criminal – poor, bad, ignorant but cunning – or one-off murderers. Though if you were locked up for a long time your chances of killing your child or abusive husband were lowered significantly…

Celestina was self-contained while she was at Millbank, not misbehaving in a way that would cause her to be punished. But for a moment, I’m going to take a quick look at what was called ‘breaking out’, which wasn’t escaping but acting in an irrational way.

Punishment cells

The ‘prison matron’ explained that at Millbank there were 42 matrons of various ranks, and an average of 471 prisoners; that’s about 11 convicts to each warder. She went on:

‘The most trying ordeal for all prisoners is that of probation at Millbank – the silent system, as it may almost be termed… it is simply impossible to make the female prisoners conform to strictly silent rules, or to any rules, for a length of time… there is a restlessness and excitability in the character of these women, that makes the charge of them infinitely more of a labour and a study than the management of treble the number of men.

‘The male prisoners are influenced by some amount of reason and forethought, but the female prisoner… acts more often like a mad woman than a rational, reflecting human being.’ FL

The offending women were put into ‘dark cells’. Mayhew and Binny were shown them as part of their tour of Millbank. ‘”There’s one of our punishment cells,” says the dark-eyed young matron, as we quit B ward, passage No 2. The cell was not quite dark; there was a bed in the corner of it.

‘”What can the women do there?” asked we. “Do!” cried the matron; “why, they can sing and dance, and whistle, and make use, as they do, of the most profane language conceivable.”‘ Dancing and whistling? Disgraceful.

Women prisoners in the yard at Millbank *

‘We now proceeded up stairs to the punishment cell on the landing. This one was intensely dark, with a kind of grating in the walls for ventilation, but no light-hole; and there was a small raised wooden bed in the corner. The cell was shut in first by a grated gate, then a wooden door, lined with iron, with another door outside that; and then a kind of mattress, or large straw-pad, arranged on a slide before the outer door, to deaden the sound from within. “Those are the best dark cells in all England,” said our guide, as he closed the many doors. ” They’re clean, warm, and well ventilated.” There were five such cells in a line…

‘”That’s one of the women under punishment who’s singing now,” said the matron, as we stood still to listen. “They generally sing. Oh! that’s nothing – that’s very quiet for them. Their language to the minister is sometimes so horrible, that I am obliged to run away with disgust.

‘”Some that we’ve had,” went on the matron, “have torn up their beds. They make up songs themselves all about the officers of the prison. Oh! they’ll have every one in their verses – the directors, the governor, and all of us.” She then repeated the following doggerel from one of the prison songs :- “If you go to Millbank, and you want to see Miss Cosgrove, you must inquire at the round house; – and they’ll add something I can’t tell you of.”

‘We went down stairs and listened to the woman in the dark cell, who was singing “Buffalo Gals,” but we could not make out a word – we could only catch the tune.

‘In F ward is the padded cell. “We’ve not had a woman in here for many months,” said the matron, as we entered the place. The apartment was about six feet high; a wainscot of mattresses was ranged all round the walls, and large beds were placed on the ground in one corner, and were big enough to cover the whole cell. “This is for persons subject to fits,” says the matron; “but very few suffer from them.”

‘The matron now led us into a double cell, containing an iron bed and tressel [trestle table]. Here the windows were all broken, and many of the sashes shattered as well. This had been done by one of the women with a tin pot, we were informed.

‘”What is this, Miss Cosgrove ?” asked the warder, pointing to a bundle of sticks like firewood in the corner.

‘”Oh, that’s the remains of her table! And if we hadn’t come in time, she would have broken up her bedstead as well, I dare say…”‘

Isolation

Next they went to ‘D ward, passage No 2; this is the penal ward. Here the windows were wired inside, and had rude kinds of Venetian blinds fixed on the outside; the cells were comparatively dark, and the prisoners younger and much prettier than any we had yet seen. Many of them smiled impudently as we passed. Here the bedding was ranged in square bundles all along the passage, because the prisoners had been found to wear them for bustles.

Millbank convict in a canvas dress *

‘”Those bells,” points out the matron, “are to call male officers in case of alarm.”
Presently we saw, inside one of the cells we passed, a girl in a coarse canvas dress, strapped over her claret-brown convict clothes. This dress was fastened by a belt and straps of the same stuff, and, instead of an ordinary buckle, it was held tight by means of a key acting on a screw attached to the back. The girl had been tearing her clothes, and the coarse canvas dress was put on to prevent her repeating the act…

‘The canvas dress we found to be like a coarse sack, with sleeves, and straps at the waist – the latter made to fasten, as we have said before, with small screws. With it we were shown the prison strait-waistcoat, which consisted of a canvas jacket, with black leathern sleeves, like boots closed at the end, and with straps up the arm.

‘The canvas dress has sometimes been cut up by the women with bits of broken glass. Formerly the women used to break the glass window in the penal ward, by taking the bones out of their stays and pushing them through the wires in front.’ M&B

When they knew that the punishment cells were full, ‘women will break their windows, or strike… their officers… knowing that they will have a companion for a day or two; and a companion, even with bread and water by way of diet, is better than silent existence under separate confinement,’ the ‘prison matron’ wrote. Some prisoners ‘feigned’ madness in order to get out of their solitary cells. But Celestina wasn’t one of these.

Millbank Prison was ‘founded on humane and rational principles; in which the prisoners should be separated into classes, be compelled to work, and their religious and moral habits properly attended to,’ according to London and its Environs; or, the General Ambulator, a guidebook printed in 1820.

Admirable in theory, perhaps; but in real life being locked up alone and in silence was worse for many of these women than having human contact, even in a punishment cell.

So it’s probably no surprise that being ‘allowed’ to act as servants to matrons was seen as a favour to the better-behaved prisoners. The ‘matron’ listed some of the ways they could get ‘breaks in the monotony of their existence’, such as ‘letter-writing days’ – their letters were opened and read before leaving the prison; ‘schooling’; ‘extra duties out of their cell, in attendance on a matron’; ‘association’, for instance in the prison yard at exercise time; ‘seeing directors, to make remonstrances, or solicit extra favours’; and ‘seeing the surgeon about their little ailments’. FL

But, as I mentioned, Celestina didn’t break out. The ‘matron’ described her as being ‘quiet and well-ordered… partial to her own cell and her work therein’. This earned her the reward of a transfer to Brixton Prison, which is where I’ll take up her story in the next post.

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/04/04/celestinas-life-in-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-22/feed/0rebelhandHandwritten record of Celestina Sommer being sent to MillbankPlan of the women's pentagon at Millbank PrisonA notice to female convicts, pinned to the wall at Millbank PrisonEngraving of a guard at the inner gate, Millbank PrisonWomen convicts at exercise in Millbank Prison, wearing winter cloaks and tall hatstimeMillbank Prison: what female prisoners ateEngraving of Holloway Prison kitchenOld photo of Millbank Prison in the 1880s showing an exercise yard and a towerWomen prisoners in the yard at MillbankEngraving of Millbank Prision, 19th centuryMillbank Prison convict in a canvas dressRules for the penal class of female convicts at Millbank PrisonMillbank CS cropFinding my past in Ireland free: Julia Harringtonhttps://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/01/24/finding-my-past-in-ireland-free-julia-harrington/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/01/24/finding-my-past-in-ireland-free-julia-harrington/#commentsSun, 24 Jan 2016 15:05:35 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4875Continue reading →]]>I’m spending today using the free access to Irish records offered byFindMyPast Ireland this weekend (until 1200 on Monday 25 January, in case you haven’t seen the special offer – UK records are free, too, but I’ve already got a sub).

But there’s one clue that I’ve grabbed like a swimmer grabs a lifebelt. Of course, it could be sweeping me further out to sea, but there’s no point in not looking deep into it.

The Wesleyan Methodist baptism of her daughter Hannah (or Annah) on 9 August, 1835, states that she was the daughter of James and Mary Cammell. Or possibly Gammell. What do you think?

Hannah Harrington’s baptism, 1835

The trouble with this baptism entry is that the minister who made it, WL Thornton, only made one entry in the record book. And there’s only one C in the record to compare Julia’s name with, and no G. So I’m going for both Cammell and Gammell.

I’m focusing on James, her (probable) father, since I haven’t found any Julias with the right sort of surname, daughter of James and/or Mary, born about 1808, somewhere in Ireland (do I hear hollow laughter?), who was married to the elusive Mr Russel/l by 1828. Who knows? I might find a clue.

Wish me luck!

I may be some time.

(PS: There are also offers at Ancestry Australia/NZ until the end of Australia Day (of course!), the 26th – see Judy Webster’s excellent page; Lost Cousins is free, also until midnight on the 26th; and Chris Paton flags up a great Ancestry UK offer at his British GENES blog, which closes tonight at 2359 – so hurry!)

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2016/01/24/finding-my-past-in-ireland-free-julia-harrington/feed/2rebelhandJulia Harrington in the 1851 censusHannah Harrington's baptism, 1835Cammell bcuCarroll, probablyFour examples of CarrollConnors, probablyA sad Christmas storyhttps://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/25/a-sad-christmas-story/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/25/a-sad-christmas-story/#commentsFri, 25 Dec 2015 13:37:14 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4863Continue reading →]]>Merry Christmas, and I hope it’s a happy season for you and those you love.

That’s a much older (and slightly sinister) version of Father Christmas from 1855, before he turned into jolly red-faced, red-hooded Santa.

Old Father Christmas

His yule log is strapped to his back, he’s crowned with holly, and he carries a wassail bowl. I’d guess he’s dressed in green. Very pagan.

I’m not sure I’d trust him popping down the chimney into a child’s bedroom. But then, he comes from a time when Christmas was more for the grown-ups than for children, which it became later in the 19th century.

Baby Christmas

Now that it’s the holidays, I’ve got some time for genealogical research (yayyy!). I was looking for my great-great grandfather, George Richard or Richards. He was the father of Elizabeth, who married Griffith Owen from Anglesey. As far as I know George was not a relative of my other Richards family.

George Richard was born in St Dogmael’s, also known as St Dogmell’s, on the border of Cardiganshire and Pembrokeshire and sometimes in one county, sometimes in the other. It’s on the other side of the river Teifi from Cardigan/Aberteifi.

OS map, 1″, 1885-1900 *

And I came across a record in the Pembrokeshire Burials at FindMyPast. Very simple, very short, it told a sad story.

St Dogmells burials for 1848 *

A five-month old baby called Christmas, buried on 5 May 1848. No surname. And looking at where she or he (we don’t even know that) spent their short life… it was the workhouse.

I checked the baptism records and couldn’t find any babies who matched.

So… no surname, no recorded parents, died at the workhouse. Would I be right in picturing a desperate woman abandoning her newly-born illegitimate child at the workhouse in late December 1847, where the staff named the little scrap after the Christmas season? Or perhaps Christmas’s mother was already in the workhouse and died in or after childbirth.

I hope this hasn’t saddened you – it just seemed such a poignant story I wanted to share it.

May you be surrounded with the love of family, friends or whoever is dear to you this festive season.

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/25/a-sad-christmas-story/feed/5rebelhandPicture of Old Father Christmas with a holly crown, yule log and wassail bowlOld map of St Dogmael's, Ordnance Survey, 1885-1900St Dogmells death record for five month old ChristmasClose-up of old map showing Cardigan Union workhouse, St Dogmael'sNew South Wales 1891 census onlinehttps://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/22/new-south-wales-1891-census-online/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/22/new-south-wales-1891-census-online/#commentsTue, 22 Dec 2015 12:35:27 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4857Continue reading →]]>The Shoestring Genealogist here, just popping in to make sure you know that the New South Wales census for 1891 is now online at Family Search – with images! And free to everyone!

I had to have a look.

Extract from the NSW 1891 census showing householders at Hartley and Cox’s River

There’s my great-grandfather Tom Delaney at the family home, Moyne Farm, with the (sadly un-named) other members of the household. There were five males and six females in all.

My great-grandmother, Mary Maude Wilson, Tom’s wife, was one of them. The Delaney children, Ethel, Laurence Thomas, Winnie, Flo and Ella would also have been included unless they weren’t at home on 5 April, 1891, when the census was taken.

The index to this census was already available on the New South Wales State Records website, and the index could be searched at Ancestry. But, as Peter fromLost Cousins, who wrote about this development in his newsletter, says: “free access to indexed records and images at FamilySearch will make it more readily accessible.”

Thanks for the tip, Peter! And thanks to FamilySearch for making the 1891 census so accessible.

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/12/22/new-south-wales-1891-census-online/feed/2rebelhandExtract from the NSW 1891 census showing householders at Hartley and Cox's RiverHow to get the FMP half-price offer (ends 30 November 2015)https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/29/how-to-get-the-fmp-half-price-offer-ends-30-november-2015/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/29/how-to-get-the-fmp-half-price-offer-ends-30-november-2015/#commentsSun, 29 Nov 2015 18:08:14 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4847Continue reading →]]>This offer’s now ended – but do read what Judy Webster says about using the ChangeDetection button on her web pages – see comments at the bottom.

Hi, it’s the Shoestring Genealogist popping in to let you know a trick which should still get you a half-price subscription to FindMyPast until Monday, 30 November. So be quick!

The offer applies to FMP records for the UK, Australia/New Zealand and Ireland. Genealogists in the States get a huge 75% off. But 50% seems pretty good to me, so I was excited, as my last FMP sub had run out a few months ago.

Oh no! I can’t get my FindMyPast offer!

I learned about the offer from the wonderful Geneabloggers and Judy Webster and tried clicking on the UK FMP link on both their posts to subscribe, using the code BLACKFRIDAY15. But every time I got the same message:

Oh, no! Was it because I’m in the UK and Thomas MacEntee’s link was from the US, Judy’s from Australia? But why would that make a difference? Both the links took me to the UK site, after all.

PS: Lynn Corrigan tells me that she had to log out of US FMP and then use the Thanksgiving code THNKSGNG15 in order to get her 75% off sub.

Have you had trouble with this offer? Did Claire’s link work for you?

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/29/how-to-get-the-fmp-half-price-offer-ends-30-november-2015/feed/4rebelhandFMP snipFMP offerCelestina arrives at Millbank Prison: a Christmas tale pt 21https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/21/celestina-arrives-at-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-21/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/21/celestina-arrives-at-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-21/#commentsSat, 21 Nov 2015 15:56:32 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4759Continue reading →]]>Celestina Sommer’s death sentence was commuted to transportation for life on 22 April 1856. Because she was still waiting for her sentence to be carried out, she was taken back to Newgate Prison (which was a ‘detentional’ prison, only used for debtors and for those awaiting trial, death or transportation).

She was under the category of ‘Prisoners whose Judgments have been respited or from Various Causes remain in Custody from time to time Brought into Court for Trial or Otherwise. Usually called Prisoners upon Orders’ (London Lives).

However Newgate would soon fill up again with prisoners awaiting their own trials and there was now a second ‘holding’ option for women convicts: Millbank Prison, where they could be accommodated for much longer stretches. And that’s where Celestina and the two other convicted murderers, Elizabeth Ann Harris and Mary Ann Alice Seago, were sent in the next few months.

Map showing Millbank Prison, near Vauxhall Bridge

‘Every male and female convict sentenced to transportation in Great Britain is sent to Millbank previous to the sentence being executed. Here they remain about three months under the close inspection of the three inspectors of the prison, at the end of which time the inspectors report to the Home Secretary, and recommend the place of transportation,’ wrote Peter Cunningham in his Handbook of London, published in 1850.

This is where you’d expect me to start on another story of a convict transported to Australia, like many of my posts. But Celestina’s sentence and the identical sentences of the other two women were changed again, to penal servitude for life.

Life imprisonment, to be served in Britain.

This intrigued me. One of my convict ancestors, Nicholas Delaney, had his sentence changed from death to penal service overseas (pretty much a death sentence) and then to transportation. But that was over 50 years before, when there were too many in prison and sending them to Australia was seen as the solution. So why would the authorities prefer imprisonment in Britain to transportation – a complete reversal of policy – in 1856?

One reason seems to have been that those Aussies were getting all uppity about having convicts sent over. They’d got it into their heads that they’d had enough of them, thanks, and anyway there were now enough people to do the work that was needed, so don’t send any more. Only Western Australia, proclaimed a penal colony in 1849, needed the labour.

The convict ship Hougoumont

Meanwhile Mother England was reconsidering the cost of sending her dregs overseas when there were plenty of people ready to go to Australia and pay their own passage, or have it paid for them (like some of my other ancestors). Transportation didn’t reform the convicts, and the threat of it hadn’t lowered the crime rate. It had been a useful experiment, but now it wasn’t working.

Very few people, in fact, were in favour of transportation by the time Celestina was sentenced.

Indeed, in 1853, the Penal Servitude Act had ordered that only long-term transportation would continue and, four years later, the 1857 Penal Servitude Act ended it, in theory at least. Prisoners were transported for another 10 years, with the last convict ship, the Hougoumont, arriving in 1868.

During my research I noticed that the last four ships to take women convicts to Australia had sailed in 1852, with the very last, Midlothian, carrying just 18 convicts from Ireland, arriving in February 1853. So it looks as if there was very little chance of Celestina ever being transported.

Plan of Millbank Prison *

Built as a panopticon, reformer Jeremy Bentham‘s design for a prison where all (convicts) could be seen (by their gaolers), Millbank Penitentiary opened in 1816. It closed in 1890 and Tate Britain now stands on part of its 16-acre former site.

Millbank seems to have acted as a holding house for convicts waiting for places to become available on the ships and also in other prisons. As Henry Mayhew and John Binny wrote in The Criminal Prisons of London and Scenes of London Life in 1862, ‘The female prison here is to Brixton what the male prison is to Pentonville – a kind of depot to which the convicts are forwarded as vacancies occur.’

They elaborated: ‘Males and females of all ages are received here, the prison being the depot for convicts of every description. When a man [or woman, my note] is convicted, and sentenced either to transportation or penal servitude, he remains in the prison in which he was confined previous to his trial, until such time as the order of the Secretary of State is forwarded for his removal; and he is then transferred to us… From this prison he is, after a time, removed to some “probationary” prison (to undergo a certain term of separate confinement) such as that at Pentonville…’ or, in the case of women, to Brixton Prison.

And in Millbank Prison Celestina would begin her next period of waiting.

Millbank Prison from the Thames

The papers went quiet about what was happening to her after her transfer to Millbank was reported on 18 August, 1856, in the London Standard.

That doesn’t mean that they stopped talking about her. In fact her case became iconic in the debate about capital punishment, and she was referred to in both Houses of Parliament. But that’s (at least) a whole post in itself and I have a feeling that you want to get to the end of the story fairly soon. Let me know if you want more about the death penalty debate and I’ll come up with something.

Back to Celestina and Millbank Penitentiary. It was a less terrible place to be imprisoned than Newgate – though it was hard to find more feared prisons than ‘Hell above ground‘.

From the outside, it wasn’t as forbidding as Newgate, but it was still obviously a building meant to stop people getting out (or in) and to be a reminder of what fate waited a criminal.

Millbank Prison, outer lodge *

There was one entrance to the prison, facing the Thames. Seen from the river, it looked like a castle from the Middle Ages, with its high walls and watchtowers.

Contemporary writers noted that Millbank was even surrounded by an old moat, now filled in and grazed by cows.

The castle-like impression would have been reinforced for Celestina as she approached the outer lodge, with its huge doors. These were opened by an official wearing a ‘half-police-half-coast-guard kind of uniform’, Mayhew and Binny reported. (From now on, any unattributed quotations will be from their book.)

‘Hence we were directed across the long wedge-shaped “outer yard” of the prison – a mere triangular slip, or “tongue,” as it is called, of bare, gravelled ground, between the diverging sides of the first and last pentagons; and so we reached the barred “inner gate,” set, within a narrow archway at the apex, as it were, of the yard. Here the duty of the gate-keeper is to keep a list of all persons entering and quitting the prison.

‘After unlocking a “double-shotted” door, the warder, under whose charge we had been placed, conducted us into a long, lofty passage, like that of a narrow cloister, or rude whitewashed box-lobby to a theatre. On the right, higher than we could conveniently see, were the exterior windows of the pentagon; on the left, the doors of the apparently infinite series of cells.

‘These doors are double, the inner one being of wood and the outer one of iron lattice- work or “cross-bars.”

Millbank Prison ‘flank’ gates *

‘Every ward consists of two passages or sides of the several pentagons, and ranged along each passage are fifteen cells. The passages are fifty yards long, about ten feet high, and about seven wide, and all of equal size. They are paved and coloured white…

‘Each cell is about twelve feet long by seven broad… The inner door is left open in the day time from nine till five, so that all semblance of a communication with the world may not be taken away from the inmate. At night, however, or upon any misconduct on the part of the prisoner, the inner door is closed or “bolted up,” as it is termed; nevertheless, [s]he can be seen by the jailer through a small vertical slit in the wall-like that of a perpendicular letter-box.’

Celestina was taken to the third of the six pentagons, the one where women prisoners were kept. It was ‘quite shut off from the others, and opened with a separate key.’

The women’s pentagon at Millbank *

It was ‘of slighter construction; though this is a compliment to the sex which unfortunately they have failed to justify, as the female convicts throughout the prison are pronounced “fifty times more troublesome than the men.” The grated iron gates are less massive.’

There are different views in academic writings about whether women prisoners were really worse-behaved than men. Some say that disruptive behaviour was to be expected in a system designed by, and for, men, and which didn’t work for women; others reckon that convict women were seen as worse, because they’d failed to live up to the image of the ‘angel in the house‘, meek, obedient, almost asexual. It’s a familiar picture to anyone who’s looked at early Australian colonial history.

I’ll come back to badly-behaved women in a later post. Let’s get Celestina locked up first.

The third pentagon – the women’s prison – was divided into wards. Celestina would have been taken to B ward, the ‘first probation ward’, for women in their first months of detention.

Millbank: rules for the ‘probation class’ *

‘The convicts pick coir for the first two months, and, if well-behaved for that time, they are then put to needlework. Their door is bolted up for the first four months of their incarceration.’

This was one of the principles of the ‘separate system’, where (unlike at Newgate) convicts slept, ate and worked in their cell and were allowed no contact with other prisoners.

Picking coir was similar to the better-known oakum-picking, a boring, difficult job. Oakum was made by unravelling old ropes and picking out the individual strands, which would be used to caulk the seams of boats. Coir, also probably taken from old ropes, was unpicked to make mats or as stuffing for beds – you can still get mattresses with a coir layer in them.

‘Here we find the inner wooden doors thrown back. “These women have all been here less than three months,” adds the principal matron. ” Such as you have already seen at needlework have been here over two months, and those that have coir to pick have been in less than two months.”

Millbank prisoner *

‘As we pass, the convicts all jump up and curtsey – some of them bobbing two or three times. All wear the close white prison cap. Some are pretty, and others coarse-featured women; many of them are impudent-looking, and curl their lip, and stare at us as we go by.’

What did Celestina look like in her Millbank prison clothing? Mayhew and Binny mention her white cap. But what about her hair? It was cut off: ‘”Oh, yes, they’d sooner lose their lives than their hair!” said the warder, in answer to our question as to whether the females were cropped upon entering the prison. “We do not allow them to send locks of the hair cut off to their sweethearts; locks, however, are generally sent to their children, or sisters, or mother, or father…”‘

Presumably the woman in the illustration to the right had been incarcerated long enough to regrow her hair.

It was ‘a trial that is always the hardest to bear’, said FW Robinson, a man writing as ‘a prison matron’, in Female Life in Prison.

‘Women whose hearts have not quailed, perhaps, at the murder of their infants, or the poisoning of their husbands, clasp their hands in horror at this sacrifice of their natural adornment – weep, beg, pray, occasionally assume a defiant attitude, resist to the last, and are finally overcome only by force. It is one of the most painful tasks of the prison…’

The horror women convicts felt at having their hair cut off is a thread running through criminal history. It may have been useful, getting rid of nits and lice as well as identifying potential escapees. But above all it was humiliating, defeminising and long-lasting – think of those flowing Victorian tresses, which would take years to grow. Celestina, so pretty and well-dressed, would have felt this as a terrible blow.

Her clothes were taken away and she was given standard Millbank slops (prison clothes): a ‘dark claret-brown’ dress, a check apron, a grey bonnet and, presumably, shifts and any other underclothes.

Then the door was slammed and locked, and Celestina Sommer began life as a convict in Millbank Prison.

]]>https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/21/celestina-arrives-at-millbank-prison-a-christmas-tale-pt-21/feed/5rebelhandCS transportation cropMap showing Millbank Prison, LondonHougoumont, the last convict ship sent to Australia. Old photoPlan of Millbank Prison, showing the six separate wingsMillbank Prison from the Thames; old engravingMillbank Prison, the outer lodge entranceMillbank Prison flank gates (inside the prison)Plan of the women's pentagon at Millbank PrisonMillbank Prison's rules for the 'probation class' of women convictsWoman convict at Millbank PrisonFive years of genealogy blogginghttps://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/16/five-years-of-blogging/
https://rebelhand.wordpress.com/2015/11/16/five-years-of-blogging/#commentsMon, 16 Nov 2015 13:10:13 +0000http://rebelhand.wordpress.com/?p=4823Continue reading →]]>It’s my fifth blogiversary this week. I can hardly believe I’ve been geneablogging for five years!

So much has changed since then. I started out posting so that I could add new information which wasn’t available when my mother and I wrote a book about our ancestor, Nicholas Delaney, the Irish rebel and Australian convict who built some of New South Wales’s first roads and settled down as a respectable farmer.

Then my genealogy research expanded and so did the blog, taking in more convict ancestors, John Simpson and Sarah Marshall. My post about her grave is still the most visited one.

Then my mum Patricia, my genealogy inspiration, died. I could have given up, without having her to share my discoveries with. A big part of the joy of genealogy had been hearing her thoughts on new insights.

Geneabloggers are wonderful

But I wasn’t alone – the genealogy community was out there and they rallied round.

The best thing about blogging has been the people I’ve met, online and in person. Geneabloggers are wonderfully generous and supportive. And they – you – inspired me to go on. Thank you.

That was an experiment, and I didn’t think it would go on as long as it has, but I found more and more fascinating stuff I just had to write about. And I ‘met’ some great historians online as I was researching Celestina Sommer, born Christmas.

I’d like to apologise for the long delay since my last post. A combination of dying laptop, long wait for new PC, broadband troubles and working more hours took me away, but it’s time to give this blog a bit of birthday love and care.

What would you like to read?

So what next? I’d love to hear from you. Would you like more of the social history type posts, like the ones about Celestina? Or do you prefer more family history ones? And I’ve neglected my other ancestors on this blog – the Owens, Lloyds, Davieses, all from Wales. Is it time for Welsh geneablogging?